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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158918">Who You Belong To</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proskenion/pseuds/Proskenion'>Proskenion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Who You Belong To [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Angst, Art by the amzing WhiteleyFoster, Branding, Burning, Capture, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is in a lot of pain, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Art, Kidnapping, M/M, Marking, Physical Abuse, Torture, sorry this is pure angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:00:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158918</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proskenion/pseuds/Proskenion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes!”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After Crowley rescued Aziraphale and they had crepes together, they part to go back home. But Crowley is met by two old friends he didn't really wished to see… </p><p>Inspired by this amazing art : https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Who You Belong To [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667878</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Who You Belong To</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts">WhiteleyFoster</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello lovelies ! </p><p>I wrote this after seeing the GORGEOUS art by Whiteley Foster on Tumblr and Instagram. If you don't know her work, just go check on her profiles, she's amazing!! </p><p>I hope you'll like it. It's pure angst and Crowley is sad an hurt and needs a hug… Or half-century long nap, at least.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Going out from the little <i>crêperie</i>, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s contented face, and made an effort not to smile too much. He asked if the angel had a place to stay for the night, trying to sound matter-of-factly, althought he couldn’t deny the stinging disappointment when Aziraphale said he had one indeed.  </p><p>And so they parted and Crowley wandered off to his own place. He was moody, and it angered him to be so after a nice evening like he just had. Calling himself an idiot, he turned into a dark alley. He was halfway through when he stopped. Something was wrong. Too quiet, too…</p><p>‘Good evening, Crawly.’ A figure emerged from the darkness. Crowley tensed, but when he spoke his voice was steady and cheerful, ‘Duke Hastur ! To what do I owe the honour ?’ </p><p>‘Have a guess.’ The voice came from behind him. Crowley spun around and found himself facing Ligur. In a heartbeat, the two Dukes of Hell were just near him, way too close, preventing him from running anywhere. Crowley opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to speak. The two others snapped their fingers together. All went black. </p><p>When Crowley regained consciousness, he first was lost in a magma of confused feelings. A jail… French… Fear… Crepes… </p><p>Suddenly all his memory went back at once, and he simultaneously realised he was tied to a chair. And that smell… sulphur and despair. <i>Blimey !...</i></p><p>‘Ah, finally awake, Crawly.’ </p><p>‘Crowley,’ he hissed. </p><p>‘I don’t care by what name you go by.’ Hastur came out of the shadow. Crowley glared at him with defiance, a snake-like hissing escaping his lips. Hastur sneered. ‘That’s it,’ the Duke of Hell taunted, ‘you’re nothing but an insignificant, snivelling snake.’ </p><p>Crowley gritted his teeth. He kept glaring at Hastur, although an underlying fear was starting to growl inside him. He asked, ‘what am I doing here ?’ </p><p>Hastur grinned. ‘We tought you needed a little reminder.’ </p><p>‘A reminder of what ?’ Crowley’s voice was sharp, but underneath he was trembling with fright. After all, he was all chained up in one of Hell’s darkest pit, in company of a Duke of Hell, who was well-known for his sadistic pleasures. He vaguely wondered if it was because he had saved Aziraphale earlier – but his thoughts were cut short by Hastur’s dreary laugh. Crowley looked at him, and shivered when he saw what Hastur was holding : a long iron stick, with the leviathan cross brand at its end. </p><p>‘A reminder of what you truly are,’ Hastur declared, putting the stick into a fire that just appeared next to him, glowing dreadfully on his white, putrid skin. ‘Of who you belong to.’ </p><p>Crowley swallowed hard, his fright washing over him like burning lava on a volcano. He instinctively tried to escape, but the chains on his wists and arms just hold him tighter, cutting painfully through his skin. He swallowed back a moan. </p><p>‘Don’t struggle,’ Hastur warned, making Crowley jump as he had’nt realised the other demon had come closer, ‘you’ll only make things worse.’ </p><p>‘There’s no need to come to this,’ Crowley said, trying to hold back to his usual visible assurance. ‘Maybe we can talk about it ?’ </p><p>‘Time for chitchat is over, Crawly.’ And that said, Hastur took Crowley’s collar and tore it harshly, revealing the demon’s bare shoulder. </p><p>‘No, wait !’ Crowley’s plead died in his own agonising scream as Hastur imposed the brand on him. It burned his skin, and through it to the bones and more, the excruciating pain flowing from the wound through his whole body. It was not an ordinary fire, and it was not an ordinary brand : it was Hell’s work itself. Crowley heard Hastur’s devilish laugh as if coming from afar while the pain was becoming the only remaining reality. Everything around him was fire, darkness, and suffering. </p><p>He woke up in the dark alley. His whole body was shaking, and when he tried to move the pain stopped him. That was when he broke down in tears. </p><p>He only moved at the break of dawn. A street cat had come to sniff him, its whiskers tickling his face. The cat jumped away as Crowley struggled to sat up. He stared at the small animal which was looking at him with curiosity. It meows. </p><p>‘Yeah, well, you don’t really look well either,’ Crowley mumbled. </p><p>He stumbled to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was awful. He clenched his fingers around it, both in an attempt to ease the pain and hide the mark left on his skin. He would never get rid of it, he knew it. And they could use it against him, making it hurt again as often as they wished to. A flash of anger went through him, overcoming the despair and pain. He walked - stumbled - all his way to his place. When he arrived, the freshness of the place soothed him. The plants, the Mona Lisa painting, his bed, all felt familiar and comforting, if not entirely safe. </p><p>He suddenly felt exhausted. He collapsed on his bed and left his last strength leave him. As sleep washed over him, his thoughts wandered towards a certain angel, and he found himself wishing Aziraphale was here. </p><p>‘Angel…’ he let out in a breath before falling asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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